"That's a queer idea," he whispered hoarsely.
"And another thing," continued Donaldson, "tangled up with those duties are all the joys of the world. You 've been looking for them somewhere else—I 've been looking for them somewhere else—but it is n't any use. They are right there with your duties—in the keeping of other people, the unseen others. And they couldn't be bought, not with all the gold in the world. They must be given if you get them at all."
Arsdale was listening eagerly. It was as much the spirit back of the words as the words themselves that made him feel the stirring of a new power which was a new hope.
"You!" he exclaimed. "You make a man feel that you know! But the hellish smoke-hunger—you don't know anything of that."
"It's a part of the same hellish selfishness which eats the vitals out of everything. Get out of yourself, get into the lives of others, and the smoke-hunger will quit you. You could n't go down where you 've been and made a beast of yourself if you cared more about others than yourself. The power that drove you down there would n't mean anything if a stronger power held you back. The point is, Arsdale, the point is, that all by himself a man is n't worth much. He does n't count. Either he dries up or he rots."
"That's true! That's true!" answered Arsdale. "And I 've rotted. If only I had found you a year ago!"
"A year ago is dead and buried. Let it alone. Think of the live things; think of the Now! There 's a big, strong world all around you, pulsating with life; there 's sunshine in the morning and stars at night—and they are alive; there are flowers, and birds, and grasses—all alive; there are live men and women, live questions, and there is your sister. The world would be alive—would be worth while if you had only her. She 's a world in herself."
"You are right. Man, how you know!"
"Can't you see it yourself? Can't you feel the thrill of it all?"
"Yes," answered Arsdale, his eyes as alive as Donaldson's, "I see. I feel. And if I had your strength—"